Convoluted Coveting
by thegreatdusknoir
Summary: PMD:E. Post-game humanized Actaeonshipping. Dusknoir suddenly feels ill, and he's not so sure why. He's probably been poisoned... or maybe he just has a crush. Who knows? He certainly doesn't.


**title:** "convoluted coveting", AKA "in which dusknoir _thinks_ he's dying, but it's really actually much worse"

**summary:** I don't think ghost guy would be very good at handling certain emotions. particularly those of the affectionate and romantic variety.

**notes:** takes place post-game. grovyle and dusknoir are living together somewhere near treasure town – celebi, being a legendary, has to frequent the hall of origin most of the time; she doesn't live with them. post-post-post game. maybe ….. a year after special episode 5. things are settling down? I don't know this whole thing is a train wreck from start to finish in all honesty.

**warnings:** I think the word "dammit" was used at some point? maybe. the only other thing that I can think of is that this might make you experience second-hand embarrassment. read at your own risk. see end of fic for extra notes.

* * *

He was sick.

Illness was really something Dusknoir almost considered himself immune to – when he was younger, he most never the sniffles, the flu, the chicken pox, or even any of the weird infections one can pick up in mystery dungeons. Even now, trivial odds and ends like bee stings and ivy rashes were totally unknown experiences to him. He avoided both, while the former seemed in agreement with him and seemed content with avoiding him as well. The only injuries and illness he ever found himself nursing were broken bones and the occasional migraine – beyond that, he was perhaps the most physically healthy person he knew of.

As such, he was very in tune with how he felt – the trick, he knew, was to catch things preemptively. There had certainly been days where his throat felt just a smidgen too dry; while others would shake it off and proceed with their life, he'd hastily find a way to treat it before it could spiral out into an actual problem. Part of it was because he couldn't do his actual job (working for Dialga then, exploring dungeons and paying rent now) if he was choking on his own snot, and part of it was really just because he was a nit-pick at heart. Everything had to be just perfect, just the way he _wanted_ – he wanted to be healthy, and so he was. Simple.

Not this time, though. There was no warning to this dreadful, blasted curse – not a dry throat, not a grogginess in his bones, not a vague sense of nausea in his stomach, and not even a sense of apprehension – it just hit him all at once one day, and it hit him _hard_.

It was a Tuesday, Dusknoir knew, and he had woken up about ten minutes before nine, per the insistent shaking and cursing of his housemate. There was nothing new there. He had taken a shower, as he always did, and stared at his reflection in the mirror for exactly thirty-five seconds, like always, and had even worn his usual outfit and taken the same coffee and did _everything_ as normal. He didn't skip a beat, not then, and not before.

Yet for some reason, as he leaned against the counter to drink his coffee (a teaspoon of sugar, no milk) and converse with Grovyle as he always did, he felt as though his heartbeat quite literally skipped a beat – that alone was enough to make him nearly choke on his drink. His fear did not stop there, as the first event was rapidly followed by a second – he felt as his chest was constricting and tightening in on itself, yet at the same time, as if it were doing flip-flops.

He could hardly think, he was so stunned – no, even his thoughts felt blurry and hesitant now; they were merely static in a storm, and he could hardly differentiate them from the nauseous feeling -

Dear god.

He was _dying_.

"You all right?" Grovyle wearily asked, eyeing him from the table with a look that certainly was _not_ appropriate for the terror Dusknoir was feeling. "Your face is all red."

Dusknoir set his mug down on the counter, and slowly raised a hand to nervously touch at his face. He was wearing gloves, but he _did_ feel warm, and even through the coarse material he could feel _something_. Unless it was all in his head. Was it a symptom, or part of his reaction?

He looked over at Grovyle and his stomach started doing that _weird_ and slightly _painful_ thing again, and he stammered, "I-I'm fine." There was no way he'd actually tell the guy what was going on – he'd only fret, or maybe not even take him seriously; regardless, Dusknoir's sick-free reputation would be tarnished, and though Grovyle wouldn't give two shits about any of it in the long run, he himself would never let it go. That he was sure of.

Averting eye contact, he excused himself from the kitchen to go outside for some fresh air – he was destroying his routine, but he felt as though he'd suffocate if he didn't. Once outside, he covered his face with his hands and rubbed furiously at his cheeks – the feeling was still there, but now a nervous headache was accompanying it. Thankfully, he could now _think_, at least.

He stood still in the morning spring air, appreciating the slight chill in the air and trying to decide what to do.

Step one, he decided, would be to figure out what was wrong. As there clearly _was_.

Oddly enough, the more he thought about it, the worse he felt – was it all in his head?

* * *

Slowly, as the day wore on, he began ruling things out. He kept his eyes tightly closed as he and Grovyle made their way around the mystery dungeon, and though he tripped, stumbled, and ran into things quite often, it _almost_ helped to alleviate his illness, so it was entirely and absolutely worth it. The only problem he encountered with _that_ was that Grovyle began leading him by the hem of his sleeve, and whenever his hand would accidentally brush against him in any way, he instantly got chills and had to lurch back.

Grovyle seemed to take it all as just one of Dusknoir's oddities – he prayed that his companion wasn't secretly analyzing him the same way he was analyzing himself, but given his entirely normal behavior, he doubted it. Grovyle either didn't care or didn't notice – and either way, it sort of hurt in a way that Dusknoir didn't really understand.

Before the sun had even reached a midpoint on the horizon, he had a bigger list of what it wasn't than what it could have been – that is, he had no idea what it was, and an endless idea of what it definitely was not. The only points that _almost_ fit his symptoms were the idea of it being a panic attack or general anxiety – but they weren't. Panic attacks didn't last this long, and were probably a lot worse. He had no shortness of breath, felt no desire to hide, and wasn't _that_ shaken up. Anxiety doesn't just appear out of nowhere for no reason, either.

He was stumped.

The only options were that _clearly_ he was dying – he must have been poisoned, and it was only kicking in just then.

"You've been acting strangely," Grovyle said, interrupting his thoughts and worries.

"Lies and slander," he replied, again tugging his sleeve away from Grovyle. This time, though, he decided to open his eyes; maybe walking into trees and enemies wasn't worth the brief salvation from the churning of his stomach. The sensation was almost relatable to having thousands of tiny winged insects fluttering around in there – where and how he had come up with such a comparison, he didn't know, but it was eerily accurate. That pointed to a type of poisoning.

"Are you actually feeling all right? You've been red all day."

"Red?"

"In the face." Grovyle's tone and voice were so cool and collected that Dusknoir couldn't help but to wonder how he had never noticed it – it was so _smooth_. Confident. Calm. It was pleasant, actually, even though hearing it seemed to worsen his symptoms. "I'd say you were blushing, but it's been so near-constant that you're probably just sick or something. I did hear that there was a flu going around."

"Of _course_ I'm not blushing," he snapped back, completely ignoring the latter half of his sentence. "What am I, a school girl?"

"You're something, that's for sure."

Dusknoir wondered what that something was, but he didn't dare to ask.

* * *

His symptoms only grew worse as the days carried on – it was puzzling, painful, and weirdly almost addictive; he was apparently a masochist at heart, because he knew that only a real jerk would actually enjoy being ill in any way.

He poured through all of the books he and Grovyle owned, and then some from the marketplace and guild down the street, all in a desperate search to find what was wrong with him. He found himself staying up later than usual, hunched over a book until the sun itself rose, fitfully falling asleep for five or six hours, and then beginning the cycle of insanity again. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it – the symptoms came and went as he went on with his day, and intensified accordingly. It was impossible.

He tried all sorts of cures – he ate only poison-curing berries and seeds for days on end, then began trying impossible remedies from town-to-town moving vendors he found in mystery dungeons. Grovyle always looked at him oddly when he stopped to barter, but still made no comment.

After a good two weeks of this back-and-forth inner banter, he decided that help was imminent. He'd have to ask _somebody_, because as horrible as it felt to admit it, two heads were certainly better than one. He'd have to collaborate with somebody.

Somebody he could trust.

Somebody that wouldn't tell a _soul_ about his affliction, about his symptoms, about his problem – somebody who was trustworthy, dependable, knowledgeable in the field of medicine and healing, and most importantly, somebody who liked him enough to comply by his rules, but at the same time someone who disliked him enough to be truthful, cold, and upfront about it – someone who, if the need arose, could say to his face, "You're going to die."

There was actually only one person off the top of his head who fit those requirements.

"When's the next time Celebi's visiting?" Dusknoir asked the moment Grovyle woke up one morning -weirdly, he found himself waking up before Grovyle did, now; he assumed it was just another symptom or the fact he didn't want to wake up with him at his side.

Grovyle took a good minute to actually wake up – after yawning, rubbing profusely at his eyes, and giving him a confused look, he said, "Next weekend, why? I thought you hated her."

"It's not hate," he said hastily, "It's a mutual dislike. She just hasn't visited in a while."

"Don't be so eager," he replied.

Dusknoir tried not to be. He really did.

* * *

Celebi arrived, as she always did, in a fit of exhaustion and boredom; after greeting Grovyle at the door, she plopped herself down on the couch and began openly complaining about her job. Grovyle didn't take it personally that she was so intent on talking about her life – it was just her way of unwinding from the strenuous and obnoxious lifestyle she had been forced into – the Hall of Origin really sounded like a nasty place to frequent. When you get that many uptight gods under one roof, shit's bound to happen. Dusknoir eavesdropped from the kitchen, pretending to study an old and stained map. He sort of wished that Celebi would hurry up, let Grovyle talk, and eventually go out to see the beach as she always did, but couldn't help but to marvel at the names she dropped – she really was living with gods, which was so familiar to Dusknoir. It had a sense of childhood nostalgia to it, just hearing the names; he had never met any, but had heard Dialga speak of many.

Of course, the ones Celebi associated with were different from the ones his Dialga had spoken of; a different timeline, a different set of gods with a different set of memories. It still pleased him to know that Kyogre and Groudon still fought, that Palkia was just as preachy as she had been, and even that Dialga himself was doing well.

…Though the last bit still carried a sour note of vehemence within him, it was still an oddly pleased note nonetheless.

"Manaphy's still missing, and nobody has enough time to actually _find_ the kid…You'd think that'd be, I don't know, Kyogre's job? Maybe someone who actually can breathe under water? No, no, instead they suggest that _I_ go look…I can't even swim, so what do they expect? If I could breathe underwater, trust me, I'd spend all of my time there - _that's_ where they should look, not on land…" Celebi droned on, and out of the corner of his eye, Dusknoir could see her toying with the unsightly sunhat on her head. She seemed fidgety, which was something he could actually relate to. Hmm.

"How long has he - she? - been gone?" Grovyle asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

"He comes and he goes. I say we should just let him – he always pops back up after a month or two in ship-shape, er, shape, but everyone's upset because he's not doing anything actually…legendary."

"He's only a kid," Grovyle huffed.

Celebi made a noncommittal shrugging sort of noise. Dusknoir stifled a chuckle.

The two kept talking, and eventually, Celebi seemed calmed down enough to return to her normally cheerful and pleasant demeanor; she was detoxing, and eventually, she managed to get all of her negative emotions and stress out. Her method just involved talking a lot.

The shapes on the map he was staring at were basically engrained in his mind by the time Celebi stood up and announced she was going for a quick walk. Grovyle, as always, declined her offer to go with her (Dusknoir strongly suspected that he was a bit worn out from Celebi's talking – she had transferred her poison to him in a way, and though it was diluted, it still demanded attention). Dusknoir, on the other hand, took this opportunity to (_finally_) set the map down and walk into the living room, saying, "I'll go."

Grovyle looked at him with an eyebrow arched, and Celebi just looked a bit surprised. "All right," she said after a short moment, shrugging slightly, "If you want."

Shortly, he found himself stumbling out of the front door with Celebi in tow, walking vaguely in the direction of the water. As soon as he was sure they were out of earshot of the house (paranoia wasn't _always_ a bad thing), he said, "I need your help with something."

"I figured," she said. "It's unlike you to leave the house while the sun's still in the sky."

He rolled his eyes. Celebi laughed a bit, but then followed it up with a serious, "What's the matter?"

"I think I'm dying."

"Nothing new there."

"It's serious this time."

"Nothing new there," she repeated. "Honestly, you seem to have a weird fascination with death – do you enjoy being terrified that much of the time?"

That was…a good question, actually. He cleared his throat, "I've fallen prey to some kind of uncharted illness – a disease, maybe. I don't know. I thought it was poisoning at first, then a heart attack-"

Celebi began laughing at that. Dusknoir stopped, waiting for her to finish. "You have to be _old_ to have a heart attack, you know-"

"…Then a poisoning, but I ended up ruling all of those out. Grovyle's books aren't helping-" A twinge of the butterflies – "and neither are any books I borrowed from the guild, or the ones I bought from the Kecleons. I honestly could have seen a professional doctor with all of the money I've spent on this."

"So, what, you're broke and you thought I could help?"

"I thought that out of the sheer goodness of your heart, you'd be willing to help a dying man in his time of need."

"You're not dying," Celebi said. "You look fine."

"Well, clearly, it's not leprosy – so of course I look fine."

Celebi laughed again, but the reasoning as to why fell short on Dusknoir.

"You've never seen a sick person up close – trust me on that, they _look_ sick."

She spoke with such conviction that Dusknoir actually had to convince himself to argue, "Then I must be _extremely_ sick. It's surpassed the stages of normal sickness."

"You just like feeling special, don't you? Different, maybe?"

"Irrelevant, Celebi," he huffed. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"I might as well," she sighed. "Grovyle _would_ be upset if I let you die…" Her last words were said in a joking and almost cynical way, but Dusknoir felt weird again at the sound of them.

They were nearing the beach - the crashing waves and salty air was becoming more and more apparent, and soon, the trees broke to reveal the saffron sand and the open expanse of blue. Celebi walked up to the beach's cave and sat up on one of the rocks by it, her legs dangling over the water. Dusknoir stood stark-still on the sand a safe distance away, choosing instead to simply clasp his hands behind his back and stare at the ocean. He preferred not to get too close.

"You say it's an illness," Celebi said, and he had to move a bit closer to hear her over the waves. "So, what are your symptoms?"

"My symptoms," Dusknoir repeated. "Hm. It all comes and goes, but I feel very…nauseas sometimes. It's not even exactly nausea, though, not quite. I don't feel as though I'm about to vomit – I just feel very on edge." He began to list out everything that stood out, putting a hesitant emphasis on the irregularity of some of the issues. Celebi listened intently and quietly, but as he talked, he couldn't help but to notice that the corner of her mouth was slowly lifting in a half-smile.

"…And my hands sometimes shake," he finished lamely, keeping his eyes locked on Celebi.

There was a long moment of silence. Eventually, however, the girl turned on the rock to face him, her fingers laced together on her lap. "That all?"

"I believe so," he said.

"Then you're not going to die."

A rush of relief coursed through him, and he felt himself almost smile – the joy stopped there, though, because if he wasn't going to die, then what _was _going to happen?

"Let me ask you a question, then," Celebi said, ignoring the inevitable look of confused happiness on his face. "You say that your stomach is in knots – is it a good thing, or a bad thing?"

"…It hurts. I thought I made that abundantly clear."

"But do you get some kind of sick kick out of it? You hate it, but you enjoy it at the same time?"

Dusknoir blinked. He tried to figure out how _she_ had figured that out – was he that open of a book? "…I suppose," he said slowly.

"Think about this." She put her hands out, palms upward, "Think _really_ hard. Are these …symptoms…more intense when you're around a specific person?"

He thought.

They had begun when Grovyle had spoken one morning, and decreased in intensity when he left the room. He had been noticing odd things about the guy lately – his voice, the exact shade of his hair, the shape of his eyes – that he hadn't thought about before, and generally felt more high-strung when he was around.

He supposed that Grovyle was his specific person.

"…Yes, actually. I didn't notice that before."

Celebi's eyes lit up, and her smile grew into a more devious one. "Do you ever think about kissing this person?"

_Kissing_ Grovyle? What-

The thought had _never_ crossed his mind. Not ever. But now it was there, it was…_there_. A flurry of feelings flashed as he considered the exact texture of his past-tense enemy's lips; of the Grovyle's lips on _his_…He identified one of the emotions as mild disgust, one of them as curiosity, and another as actual…enjoyment, somehow.

And just like that, he realized that couldn't unthink it. He kept replaying the thought in his head, as he really had no option – _he couldn't unthink the thought_. It was there _forever_ now.

Celebi began laughing – guffawing was more like it, but she still seemed so incredibly dainty that such a word couldn't possibly be used to describe her.

Dusknoir snapped back to reality. "Wh- Uh. Uh." He began stuttering, trying to find the correct set of words; he anxiously ran a hand through his hair, then finally said, "No, no, no, that's ridiculous, that's _crazy_…" He began pacing back and forth, ignoring how the sand was getting into his boots and into his socks, "No, no, no…" He wasn't sure why he was even _more_ on edge than he was earlier – and that damned thought was all too insistent. He stubbornly _refused_ to let himself think about it again-

"You're all blushy," she cooed, still giggling a bit. "I didn't even know you _could_ blush!" Another laugh, "You thought about it, though, didn't you?"

"You made me!"

"I suggested it," she corrected him, "and I don't see why you're freaking out. It's a normal thing, really. Normal emotion, normal feeling, the whole enchilada. Part of being human."

"What is?" He stopped. It was clear that she was referring to something other than a silly desire to kiss one's own housemate -

"You've got a crush, Dusknoir."

Oh, no.

That couldn't be it, could it?

…More importantly, how did _he_ not figure that out?

"…How do I make it stop?" He demanded, crossing his arms.

"You can't," she said quite simply. "It'll either fade by itself, or you'll be stuck in romantic-limbo. Maybe you'll just kiss the girl and learn that it's not what you wanted, or you'll just fall even further into the throes of pseudo-love until you're completely helpless to it." What a depressing way of putting it, he thought, and what a cheerful tone to say it in. Celebi lowered her eyes, looking at him in a thoughtful way. "…Or guy, I guess. Whatever."

Dusknoir swallowed hard, "How long?"

"Until?"

"Until it fades by itself?"

"Hm.," Celebi faltered. "I suppose the best way would be to just distance yourself from this person. Avoid them for a few months. Cut them out completely. Don't talk to them; don't think about them – just. Pretend they don't exist."

"That's not an option," Dusknoir said.

"Convince yourself that it's not a crush."

"You _told_ me what it was, so how can I just forget that?" He was more than aware that he was acting a bit childish – had been the whole time, really – but he just wanted the damned feelings to _stop_.

"Maybe liking someone isn't as bad as you think it is," Celebi pointed out. "It's proof that you're a mostly-functioning person, which really should be seen as a good thing! You're moving on up, Dusknoir!" There was a faux sense of enthusiasm in her voice. She didn't even try to sound legitimate.

Classic Celebi.

"What if – what if I just…tell them?" Dusknoir suggested. "This person is bound to be revolted, so wouldn't everything just stop once I was – was rejected?"

"I don't know," she said. "You don't handle rejection very well."

"This is different," he said. "I _want_ it to stop."

"And if the person _does_ like you?"

"Oh, he doesn't," Dusknoir assured her quickly. "It's fairly obvious."

"So it _is_ a guy?" She tapped at her chin, "Admittedly, I wouldn't have thought you went that way."

"I don't – I don't like anyone. This is just a fluke."

Celebi shrugged. "All right. But you're right, actually – that does significantly lessen the chances of him reciprocating."

"Which is a good thing."

"If you want it to be. I mean, if the whole villain thing doesn't sway him, then the gay thing might. You've got a fair chance for rejection."

"Which is a good thing."

"If you want to it be," Celebi repeated again.

Dusknoir scowled.

* * *

He actually slept that night – he supposed it was because of the relief that he was going to live. He had no dreams, thankfully, and when he woke up, it was not to the sensation of Grovyle shaking his shoulders, but instead to the sunlight filtering in through the half-covered windows.

For the first time in what was probably months, he didn't get out of bed right away. He laid there, his vision blurry without his glasses and his blankets tangled around him, all while just staring at the ceiling and thinking. He wasn't really worried anymore. Part of the weight on his chest had been lifted – he no longer felt as though he was suffocating; he just felt happy.

He supposed that the majority of the negative feelings were from the fear of the unknown – they had just tangled themselves up in his crush ones - that was all.

Did he want to have a relationship with Grovyle? Probably not – they already had one, didn't they? It was only that of friends, but it was more than enough. What did people in romantic relationships even _do_? Besides the dating-exclusive activities, he was actually unsure – though he supposed that it didn't matter. He didn't want to trade the thing he had with Grovyle for anything else, really. He sort of liked having him across the room when he slept, and he liked going on "adventures" with him, and he liked how he would bandage up his right knuckles for him when his left hurt too much to do it himself. Above that, he liked how he was almost always so casual with him – trusting. He had always been weirdly trusting, even when they were enemies…

It had been Grovyle who changed his life, really.

Would he want to tarnish that with sloppy makeouts and hand-holding? He could certainly live without all of that.

No, dating wasn't even an option – feelings be damned; Grovyle wouldn't be willing to put up with such nonsense, anyway. He was inwardly surprised that _he_ even was. It'd be best to remain at the level of close and protective camaraderie they already had. Anything else would be a step down.

With that in mind, Dusknoir managed to momentarily quell his chest, and then got up to begin his day.

Throughout the rest of her stay, Celebi was weirdly kind to him; he excused that as her being sympathetic or something girlish like that. Not that he could talk – in all actuality, he'd actually been pretty crazy over the past weeks; the fear and unfamiliar emotions had bothered him, and he had thrown reason out the window. No worries. He could think, now, and he was confident he could overcome the stupid crush in time.

Celebi eventually left – though not without aggressively shaking Dusknoir's hand and winking repeatedly – and life went back to normal. Grovyle brought up how conspiratorial the two of them had been once or twice, but Dusknoir shook it off and told him that they were trying to be nice. For his sake, he added sarcastically, which actually elicited a small chuckle – it quickened his heart rate, unfortunately, but he knew he was getting back into the groove of things already.

He just had to decide whether or no he'd tell the poor guy.

* * *

One day, when they were on their way home from a particularly boring exploration, Dusknoir decided to play with the idea of letting him know. Just for kicks - he obviously _wouldn't_, of course, as that'd be completely and totally insane.

"If some girl liked you, and you didn't know, would you want them – her – to tell you, or would you want her to keep it to herself?"

Grovyle glanced over at him. A flash of understanding slipped through his eyes, "Oh, I see. If it's about Celebi, then I already know."

The 'girl' comment was to play it safe. His plan had already backfired a single sentence in, and now _he_ was the confused one. "What?"

"Celebi. Yeah, I know she likes me." He shrugged, "It's not really a big deal. I never thought you'd try to be the messenger, though."

Dusknoir realized that there were plenty of things that Grovyle probably never thought about. "I'm not the messenger," Dusknoir sighed, trying to figure out how to explain himself. Celebi liked Grovyle? How exactly did he not catch _that_ one? "It was supposed to be small-talk or something." Then, "Celebi likes you?"

"Yeah, she's been hinting at it for years, practically." Then, remembering the time shenanigans, he corrected himself. "The equivalent of."

_Years_?

"Well, why don't you just tell her to…back off?"

"I don't mind," Grovyle confessed. "I don't think she'd handle rejection very well, to be honest. I'd hate to see her upset. It's probably better this way, anyway - we can still be friends."

"So you've…never…thought about it?"

"Thought about what? A relationship with her?"

"With anyone, I guess. I've never seen you _with_ anybody before."

Another shrug. "I had bigger problems before. Getting a date didn't seem to rank very high on my list of priorities." Grovyle put his hands in his pockets, "Besides, you can't ask things like that. You have the same problem, minus Celebi."

Well, he was mostly right about that.

Trying to be sarcastic (but really falling flat), he sighed, "What, you're not going to make some crack about me being a soulless and emotionless ghost of the night, too?"

Grovyle breathed sharply through his nose. "I might have when I first met you," he admitted. "But not anymore."

A pause.

"I mean, sometimes you're awake when the sun's still out."

Dusknoir lightly punched Grovyle's arm; Grovyle laughed.

They walked a bit in silence. It was a comfortable silence – Dusknoir was content to not say anything.

They were nearing their home when Grovyle started up again. "I value your friendship," he said, "and I doubt I'd trade it for the world."

"I agree," Dusknoir began, "And-"

"But," Grovyle interrupted. "If you want to hold hands sometimes, I'd be game."

Dusknoir tripped over the root of a tree in front of him – he barely managed to catch and right himself before stuttering out, "Wh-what?" Then, realizing what must have happened, "What did _she_ say?" Perhaps it _was_ unwise to trust her. He really wasn't in his right mind before.

"Celebi's not a snitch," Grovyle reassured him. "But I had my suspicions…" He looked at Dusknoir, and he felt his cheeks grow uncomfortably warm. "…And my suspicions were proved correct." Grovyle continued walking.

Dusknoir followed, feeling more embarrassed and fluttery than he had in his entire life, probably. "It's a misunderstanding," he tried to say calmly, but his voice cracked about halfway through. Dammit! How was it that he could flawlessly command his henchmen to kill someone, but tripped and fumbled over something as simple as a protective lie?

"Come on, Dusknoir. I realized Celebi liked me about three days after she started acting weird - how long do you think it took me to figure out your problem?" A pause, "Not that you didn't try. Your hands are never shaky, though, and that was a dead giveaway."

Dusknoir couldn't actually talk. His throat felt like it had closed in on itself. It was probably for the best.

"And you've been taking your coffee differently, and your sleep schedule has been off, and you haven't been making your bed…You were talking to Celebi, too, who is just about the only other person you sort of trust enough to talk to in that way…" He listed each item with his fingers. "…You've been quiet, you've been odd, you've been childish…Classic signs." A shrug.

Grovyle reached up and patted his shoulder – it was a comforting gesture, one that Dusknoir actually appreciated, even if it only made him feel worse.

"You didn't hear what I said though, did you?"

Dusknoir looked at Grovyle out of the corner of his eye. "Eh?"

Grovyle rolled his eyes, "Emotions are difficult," and with that, he removed his hand from his shoulder and instead grabbed Dusknoir's own hand. He laced their fingers together and squeezed. Dusknoir felt like his heart had actually stopped; for a moment, he wondered if he had actually died.

Stuttering, "E-eh?"

"I reciprocate, you moron."

* * *

Over the next few days, his life did not in fact change in any radical manner – they still bickered, they still had their morning coffee, and Grovyle still used all of the hot water in the morning. They still went on explorations together, they still patched up each other's scratches and bruises when they returned home, and Dusknoir still read aloud excerpts from whatever stupid book he was reading to annoy Grovyle while he was trying to sleep. Most nothing at all changed, except that Dusknoir felt less nervous and more satisfied, and that there was just a bit more physical contact and _occasionally_ a touch of gentleness in their tones.

Nothing was immediate. In fact, to the casual bystander, it looked like nothing about their relationship had changed – in a way, it didn't, and in a way, it did.

"Are we dating?" Dusknoir asked at one point.

"Yeah," Grovyle responded.

"Are we friends?"

"Yeah."

That seemed to sum it up pretty nicely.

Though Dusknoir was uncertain as to what to call their 'thing', he was excruciatingly sure of two _different_ things: One being that he was actually feeling content, and two being that Celebi would invariably try to kill him the next time she saw him.

Oh well. That was still a few weeks off.

* * *

a/n: oh my god get this out of my sight im tired of lookin' at it

all right! I'm not even gonna bother going on about how much I dislike this because my general level of disdain is, as always, fairly obvious. the only thing i'm gonna point out is that i'm grey-aromantic, so it's no surprise that the romantic aspects were so incredibly rocky - i'll get better, though, and maybe next time i won't have to google "REAL SYMPTOMS OF HAVING A CRUSH" like a fool. moving on!

planned fanfics are on hold until I get my shit together. instead, I'll try and deal with the 20k+ words worth of unfinished/unedited fanfic I have stored on my computer. also I'll take requests, because dear god, writer's block has hit me hard and I can't think of anything to write at all (this fanfic attests to that I believe. ooc much?). so, take this as an official notice: send me a PM regarding an idea for a short-ish (1-6k words? maybe) fanfiction (preferably pertaining to pmd, actaeonshipping, or the future trio in general, but I'll consider anything from a fandom im familiar with), and if it's as Jazzy + Cool as it probably is, then I'll try and write something. hey, free fanfiction! neat. just say, "hey, maddox, you should try and write a fanfic where [insert your Cool idea here], that'd be Hella Cool," and I'll respond accordingly. I cant guarantee shit, but then again, neither can the weatherman. but it'd be super fun anyway B))

quick note tho: nothing nsfw (no lemons, limes, or any other sinister citrus fruits allowed), and no crossovers. AUs are gold, though…B)

all right! godawful puns aside, have a nice day/evening/etc !


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